Gold
by Teenangel
Summary: A member of SG1 at their untimely moment of death


**Gold** By Teenangel

Summary: One of the members at his/her moment of death

Disclaimer: Me no own Stargate. Me poor College Student, not worth nott'n. Urgh.

Was it ever meant to be like this?

Was it ever meant to be?

Was he meant to die now? And in such a ridiculous posture, pegged to a wall in an abandoned complex like a butterfly in a collection; however, this had been with a four-foot pole rather than a one-inch pin. And to make matters worse, the pole was bent up, making it impossible to simply slide off and collapse conveniently to the ground. But even if it were possible, taking the pressure away from the immense wound through his torso would have merely caused him to bleed to death.

'_Yup, much better off as part of a butterfly collection._'

He was surprised by the humor he still retained. Good old O'Neill never lets anything get him down. But how had SG-1's dear Colonel get himself into such a fix? A Gou'ald attack? A desperate attempt to save civilization? A realistic dream?

Nope-he was stuck, alone, slowly bleeding to death and getting very sore, because he had wandered away from base camp to investigate the ruins they sat upon and had touched something! Some random innocent looking piece of shit that at the slightest contact shot a giant spear from the ceiling! Was he supposed to anticipate that? The site had been cleared by SG11, and Daniel had discovered no inscriptions mentioning booby traps.

Ah, yes-Dear Daniel Jackson. Wasn't he supposed to be the one to get stuck in these situations? Not that Jack wanted his little Archeologist to be in the same agony, which he currently endured. Jack was beginning to get restless. His week legs began to bend, immediately sending a stream of screaming signals to his brain as his lower rib cage rested on the cold metal.

"Fuck fuck fuck!" his coarse voice echoed down the stone corridor.

Another important factor in why he'd been hanging there for-what was it now? an hour? All the damn corridors! The ruins were so extensive that, even if the team was searching for their lost Colonel at that very moment, they'd have no idea where to start or where to end up. In fact, Jack wasn't even sure he knew where he was. After twenty minutes of aimlessly wandering he had merely followed a hall with a slight wind and scent of pine trees in hope it led to an exit.

'_Maybe it does'_, he thought, '_but who ever built it obviously didn't want people to leave_.'

Jack cringed and leaned his head against the cold wall. A momentary lapse of focus later and he was cursing his head off: his foot had slipped, his knees had bent, and the pole had seemingly come up to greet his ribs with a sickening scrack. His hands grabbed the pole in desperation, pushing him back on his feet and uselessly trying to yank the damn thing out.

He knew it was futile. It was jammed into a foot or two of the wall behind him. It would take three men to pull out-or one Teal'c.

"Shit, damn, fuck!" he whispered through a clenched jaw. Something like liquid pennies dripped down the corner of his mouth. He licked it automatically. A gagging reflex followed with more warm penniness rising up his throat and grotesquely spilling through his teeth. It puddleed on his hands and down his green fatigues. It glinted like red rubies and then did Jack realize all the light he'd taken for granted was from his fallen one-pound military torch, lying barely a foot away.

His body was momentarily numb as he had an epiphany that should have dawned on him sooner. He had a radio-right? Checking was so easy he feel stupid, but a minute later he felt better-or worse, his mind wasn't sure. He couldn't get a signal out through the thick walls, which meant both that his team would never know he'd been so short minded and that they probably wouldn't find him in time.  
'_Saved face, but not my life.'_

His ribs briefly touched the pole, before he was snapped awake by a searing shot of lightning, another gag of blood, a stuttered gasp of his punctured lung, and a bout of fitful coughing once he'd succeeded in a whole breath. The hall turned silent as his agonized echoes faded into the dark oblivion on either side. But he was safe within his little fluorescent glow. The torch battery wouldn't die for a month or so-as if he needed that long to die.

He realized he'd passed out, even if it was barely a second. He should've been worried about it. Loss of blood was the cause, maybe even loss of breath. He needed to focus, to live. But the only thing that wound through his oxygen deprived brain was silly observations of his surroundings, followed by memories, then some convoluted pondering on the universe that landed him back observing the dark red stain on his front.

_'Sam's hair is the color of the stone corridor. Sandy with strips of spun gold. Gold and Gou'ald sound alike. And those snakes really love gold.Daniel's gonna blame himself-he loves wallowing in guilt. Poor Space Monkey. Spacemonkeys-are there any Monkeys on another planet? What planet am I on? P2X44 something 6-no that's backwards-P44X6-damn it!'_

"Death isn't...so bad," he mumbled as colorful spots began to play in his vision. He sighed and leaned over, aware but unaffected by the discomfort it caused; his forehead touched the metallic pole and blood. Crimson fingertips grazed his nose. It tickled and a short chortle caused an irk of pain, a slight moment back to reality where a flash of worries caught hold-his love for Sam, his friendship with Daniel and Teal'c, his fishes in his pond by his cabin, his admiration for General Hammond, his guilt, his Charlie-then it passed.

He stared past the pole, and focused on a dark shape that spread out beneath him.

_That's blood,_ Jack noted,_ that's a lot of blood. Couple pints, ain't that swell._ He stared until it began to fade. Tunnel vision occurred, followed by a fuzzy sightlessness that coincided with an inability to breathe. The patterns of none vision fascinated him. And somewhere inside the nothingness he was pulled into, he was safe-safe and held by something warm and soft like an angel that reminded him of his mother's arms, or how Sarah used to comfort Charlie after a bad dream.

Then, he was cold, falling down a perspicuous full of brightness that burned his eyes.

Help, he thought and uttered at once. He heard himself and was startled by it. The bright light became a corporeal circle of annoyance above his head, held by somebody with glinting orbs on their face.

"Spacemonkey," Jack snapped. Immediately the light moved with a muted apology.

"Sir."

Jack cocked his head towards the sweet voice and once again noted the similarity between Sam's hair and gold. She smiled in a panic of false reassurance and he knew it. His fingers raised and grazed her soft, peachy cheeks, leaving red streaks like claw marks. She didn't move.

"Sam," he rasped, "my angel."

"Jack," she said after all these years, "I know."

"Good," he gurgled, a new stream finding its way over his lip and down his chin. His fingers went numb in her hand, his chest slowed, he only saw a blur with her hair shining like the sun in the eerie shadows that touched his sight. And as a last observance of this life with no context for those around to understand, he breathed out his last words-"Like gold."


End file.
